


[ i know you. ]

by bibbleboo



Category: The Secret Saturdays
Genre: Gay, M/M, NSFW, Porn With Plot, Porn with too much plot, Robophilia, Smut, TSS, Wall Sex, ace person tries to write smut, crate sex?, ended up imagining doyle saying 'p-spot' and almost couldnt finish this, his dick is real tho, probbably, while writing thsi i was trying to find an alternative to the word prostate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:48:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24774886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibbleboo/pseuds/bibbleboo
Summary: When Doyle gets kicked out, he can think of only one person to turn to, reigniting passions both parties figured were long lost.(nsfw doyle/finster oneshot bc idk im gay and i like it, sorry @ jay stephens for chuck tingle-ing on your good family story but we’re all older and gay now so why not right)
Relationships: Doyle Blackwell/Baron Finster
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	[ i know you. ]

**Author's Note:**

> Authors note: [finster voice] i want that twink obliterated
> 
> Trigger warnings: none just senxy times

_Slam!_

These days, the sound of metal upon flesh was not _typically_ a joyous sound shared between our duo, and especially not in the moment. In the scene laid before us, Baron Finster stood towering over an unexpected intruder on his ship, who was staring back at him incredulously. The robotic claw attached to his insect-like undercarriage was positioned around his shoulder, pinning him to the wall, while his more human hand was raised to pin one wrist above the man’s head. Their eyes exchanged daggers. Months ago, they might have been in a. . . _similar_ position, but with a much different air between them. Now, it’s more like a western standoff.

“Doyle Blackwell. . . To what do I owe the displeasure.” Finster enunciates his name like it’s poison, mixed discreetly in a glass of aged Brandy. He responds with a smirk.

“Got kicked out.” He almost brags, accompanied by an ironic shrug.

“Of _where_ , pray tell?” He questions the orphaned loner, with rather harsh implications, but after all, who would willingly let that beast into their home?

In disregard, Doyle maneuvers his free hand around to release the straps on his jetpack, letting it slip tiredly off his shoulders and fall to the floor.

“Doesn’t matter. I just need a place to crash.”

He scoffs, in only mild astonishment at the gall of his rival. He shouldn't be surprised. He really shouldn't. But, he's not a bed and breakfast.

“Why don’t you go to Leonidas, I’m sure he’ll let you sleep on the floor.”

Or, in other words, ones much too colorful to ever hear from Finster’s mouth, ‘go back to your new man, whore’.

“We’re not exactly on great terms.”

“Need I remind you, neither are _we_? . . . My, are you on great terms with anyone at the moment?”

He ponders the question with a disingenuous expression, the kind a student feigns when their teacher asks a question they can’t answer, waiting until they give up and pick someone else. It’s remarkably effective. He sighs.

“Don’t answer that.”

“Well, I bet if you gave me a chance, I could get on your good side for the night.”

He releases Doyle's arm so that he may cross his own, unimpressed, and unsure of where he’s going with this. Though he's reluctant with their current state of affairs, if he’s implying a business trade, that could be beneficial. He has deeper cryptic connections now that he's aligned himself with new people ~~not that Finster’s been keeping track~~ , which could be of great use to him.

“. . . What do you have to offer me?”

He begins unbuttoning his own vest.

“. . . _Excuse me?_ ” He implores the man, sounding more like a command than a question. It had been a considerable time since they last shared in any sort of physical contact besides their fists, and he was acting like they had just seen each other weekend. His amber eyes stare up obviously, fingers halting.

“What?” He questions.

“You’re really going to be that bold?” Finster chokes out, flustered and finally breaking eye contact.

“. . . Yeah? What, I mean, you act like you don’t know me or somethin’.” He continues with a laugh, trying awkwardly to shimmy the vest off with one arm still in the grasp of a metal claw.

Unfortunately, he does know him. There was in fact a time far too much like this. A time when they, Leonidas included, were a trio of adventurers, taking on the world together. But much to their disappointment, it fell apart. As they branched out their line of work and business got messy, so did their bonds. In fact, these days they were found at each other's throats with weapons rather than teeth. They had battled many times since their old escapades, classic fox and the hound style. But he can remember. . . there was a time that this was who they were. And though time had let him forget it, maybe even reject it ever happened, he realizes now, here, that he does still regrettably miss those days of reckless abandon.

“. . . You’re an animal.”

“Oh, you wanna roleplay? Like, I’m a little stray cat that you took in from the rain or something--”

A free hand moves down to cup his chin sternly. Perhaps, he doesn’t miss it _that_ much. 

_“How about a gag?”_

The expression he garners appears to be perfectly treading the line between intimidated and enticed.

“I was _joking_.”

“. . . I knew that.”

“I don’t think you did.” He replies, releasing the grip on his face.

His shoulders attempt to shrug the accusation off, despite one arm being incapacitated.

“I’m fun right.”

“Mm. For about 5 minutes.”

“Can you last that long?”

Finster inhales slowly and rolls his eyes. Every quip makes his blood boil, though he can’t seem to discern in what type of _way_. Still, he makes a decision to do something productive with the growing feeling.

_Riiip!_

In a dangerously quick motion, the razor sharp stinger at the very tail end of his apparatus has solved at least one of his problems. Farewell, shirt.

“I kinda. . . needed that.”

“I’ll let you borrow one of mine.” He says, tugging now at his pants with the metal pincer, a bit too sharp and too close to a rather sensitive area, causing his breath to hitch. The only sound to accompany this is a gentle seam ripping. He replies with a faux, forced hesitance, as he lives for the dangerous moments like these.

“Okay, I definitely need those, and I doubt _you_ have any I could borrow-”

In one move, he's hoisted up as the fabric is yanked down, straddling against the wall, now fully revealed.

“I’ll buy you something new.”

“. . . Y-”

“Do not make a sugar daddy joke right now! My god, do you have any shame?”

He bites his lip, holding back laughter.

“How’d you know that’s what I was gonna say?”

“Because I-- . . . . . . . . . . . know you.” The last part of his sentence takes both of them a bit by surprise, mirroring Doyle’s previous statement.

“. . . Even now?” He asks, voice barely above a rasp.

“. . . Let’s find out.” He replies, with a look that makes Doyle feel meak.

His hand easily finds its way to a hidden intricate mechanism located on his robot prosthesis, a latch that when activated, pulls the metal plating back and reveals. . . something more organic and ready beneath.

A rather schoolyard sounding giggle interrupts his actions. At one point, Doyle was used to it, but after so long apart, the specific childish charm the concept holds has him unable to hold it together.

“Are you _done_.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

A firm grip on his knees and gentle tug apart makes his voice sink. Anticipation starts to well in his stomach.

“. . . I’m already prepared.”

“. . . You found time on your way here?”

He nods. The stare he’s given back is the loudest stare he’s ever received.

“Hey, I don't know, you’re a busy guy, I didn’t even know if this was gonna- I mean I was just trying to make it easier for- Fuck you don’t judge me. You have a scorpion ass-”

He holds back a laugh of his own. 

“Okay, okay then, we are both desperate, sad men.”

“. . . I can live with that.”

They used to live for it.

When did that become not enough?

“You realize, if you’re lying to me, this is going to hurt very bad.” Finster warned, positioning himself at a very precarious angle. Per usual, he shrugs the idea of consequences off.

“Maybe I want it to hurt.”

His indifferent eyes stared right through him.

“Very well.”

\--

“ _Fuccchkg-_ ”

“You lied.”

“All right all right, maybe I rushed-”

Finster always knew one day his recklessness would be the death of him, and he slows his movements to make sure it’s not tonight.

“Don’t stop.” He begs, trying not to sound too desperate again, which is a hard task to accomplish, when you’re actively begging for something.

He reluctantly accommodates, with long, easy thrusts, slowly increasing in speed and strength.

After taking notice that he's not doing anything with it himself, he grabs Doyle’s other wrist and joins it with the one raised above him. It’s a subtle “you’re mine” display, one used many times before between them. He acted incredibly cocky, so above it all, but in the end, he would give his entire body like it’s a holy offering, not daring to touch it himself until the other party does first. He craved control, but not nearly as much as he craved to be free of it. Though, he would take just a bit of it back, if it became necessary.

“. . . Not to sound like a pussy, but this is really uncomfortable.” He strained out.

“Yes, I can tell. You may think otherwise, but you’ve never had a strong poker face to me.”

It was true. He could hide a few things. Intentions. Love. Pain. But only to strangers. The longer you spent around him, the more details you caught onto. Like the way his eyes take a little too long to adjust to the light reflected off of snow, Finster’s meticulous theory being that it’s a deeper product of his violent childhood loss in the mountains. Or the way that in Any other situation besides this kind, he refuses to ask for help, no matter how high the stakes are, seeming as though he’d rather die than have any more control sapped from his life. Or perhaps, the way his eye contact when slinging insults Finster’s way has slowly waned over time, because perhaps he can no longer mean them, at least not all of them.

Or, at the moment, it could be the way he writhes and inhales sharply through his teeth, muttering a quiet “fuck” here and there. Yes, truly not much of a poker face during sex. Finster preferred it that way though. Analyzing the enigma before him was a great day hobby, but at times, exhausting. Sometimes, it was more rewarding to see him completely laid bare.

In only a few steps ~~thanks to giant robot legs~~ , he's able to lay him flat on his back atop a large square shipping crate, the perfect size and height for him to maintain his overpowering position. Not to mention, more comfortable than the wall, but still uncomfortable enough for the thrill he knows he seeks.

As if on purpose (definitely on purpose) Doyle raises his arms above his head, yet again giving himself up and letting someone else take over. Finster leans forward just enough to grip them, before going back to his rhythm. He feels the warmth of his body pressed up against his metallic shell, and the heat of his breath against his chest. A rather unmanly whimper escapes Doyle's lips, hitting Finster's ears and warming something else in the process.

He was noisy. When this all first started in fact, Finster would remark that he’s too noisy for his taste, but he actually grew to find the roars and expletives to be endearing over time. Truthfully, he even finds it a challenge now to see how much of a reaction he can draw.

His moves his hips with strategy now, nearing closer and closer to a certain spot he knows well. When he hits it, it seems his plan is working.

“Shit!”

The statement was panicked in the best possible way, shaking with arousal. Finster was right, he didn’t have much shame. Though, he didn't have as much as he should either. Keeping one hand gripped on the wrists he's been offered, he places the other on the hard length beneath him.

It doesn't take much to reach a trance of passion, and to Finster’s relief, it seems all the banter the man beneath him usually provides has halted in place of shuddered breaths and choked moans.

The strokes pick up, Finster sensing he's near and making sure he gets what he came for. He sees-- Feels-- the waves of pleasure wash over him, arching into it. He also hears it, once again, through shouts and cuss words.

The timing is only slightly off, leaving him pounding at the same particularly sensitive spot.

“Ahh-- AH-- Ah-”

He whines, but doesn’t speak up, the overstimulation oddly satisfying in the absence of it for so long. A perfect summation for the loss of control that he longs for. A similar sensation builds in Finster like an electric charge, releasing in sudden euphoria.

\--

_Ding!_

Doyle's phone receives a text message. Why did he let him into his bed. Why why why. If he didn't know him any better, he'd think he was being used for his California king size.

. . . But, he does know him better. He does.

“. . . You’re avoiding your problems again, aren’t you?”

“. . . not in the mood. . .” He mutters, already relaxing into sleep.

'Avoiding problems' was how these two men ended up the way they are. Though, it would seem he likes to shoot back and forth between problems like a ping-pong ball and end up right back where he started.

“. . . didn’t _mean_ to blow it up. . .” He mutters.

“You blew something up?”

". . . dunno. . . it just kinda. . . turned to ash"

". . . Was it. . . _alive_?"

He rolls over.

"I don't wanna talk about it anymore."

And with a sigh, they're left laying there beside one another, fading into the night like shooting stars, and wondering if they are still enemies or not. Perhaps they never were. At the very least, they hold onto the fact that after all this time, they still know each other well.


End file.
